


The rambling of feverish shadows

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [72]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Implied Relationships, Sick Character, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25885846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Maxwell almost never gets sick, for varying reasons he'd rather not discuss.
Series: DS Extras [72]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 30





	The rambling of feverish shadows

"...Are you alright?"

A hand fluttered in his vision, squinting at the blinding sunlight and immediately leaning backwards from the obstruction, balance going all over the place for a moment as Maxwell hissed a low sound and struggled to get his equilibrium back under control. It didn't help that his space was being invaded, nor that he hadn't even been able to get a foot out the tent before being confronted, but it was still too bright for him to make out Wilson's face as the other man leaned in through the entrance.

" 'm fine." He waved away that seeking hand again, a light headed wash of shivers making him grit his teeth, close his eyes a moment, but his efforts didn't matter when there was the shifting of the tent fabric and a cold hand suddenly pressed to his forehead. "I said, I'm fine-"

"You're burning up, Max!"

A sharp exclamation, sharper surprise even, before Maxwell had sluggishly batted away the offending hand, scooting backwards over the stinking fur bedding as Wilson followed after him, and he still had to squint but without that overbearing painful brightness he could see the blatant concern now, the other man's brows knitted up and face settling into thoughtful worry. It was enough to squash down the dizzy nausea that was threatening his fragile sense of balance, and Maxwell curled his face into a snarl, voice twisted deep in his ragged throat as he reached up to shove the other man back and hopefully out of the tent.

"It's none of your business-"

"Don't start with that, Maxwell." Wilson's voice was firm, determined when Maxwell's strength failed him and instead only laid his gloved hands upon the man's shoulders, a measly little shove before his face grit up and eyes shut tight in a wave of dizziness, enough of a reaction to get Wilson to really start moving. "You never get sick, so don't tell me you're "fine"."

Maxwell didn't fight as Wilson went about shrugging off his weak grip, only a strained exhale of a breath escaping him when firm pressure was put to his chest, guided him more backwards and then, with only a bit more persuasion, back down in the bedding. The hand was back in his face, pressing to his brow as Maxwell unsuccessfully fought off the urge to shiver, and no matter his half hearted struggles Wilson was already shoving the fur blankets about him again.

Tucking him in as if he was child, Maxwell realized dizzily, and his hands scrambled around a moment before getting a grip to one of Wilson's arms. Not as tight as he wished it to be, he should be stronger than this, but squinting open his eyes was even more of an effort than it had been earlier; the sunlight from outside was piercing through the fabric of the tent now, it must be more worn out than it should be, and it was causing his vision to blur and smear in a sickening way.

"Higgsbury I said I was-"

"Don't Higgsbury me." That was more of a frustrated huff, and with even more finality Wilson shoved Maxwell back down from trying to sit up, easily shrugging off his shivering grip, and whatever strength Maxwell had been able to pull for it dissipated almost instantly into a shuddering exhale, eyes closing against the brightness, against the dizzy upheaval in his gut and the fact that it was the middle of autumn and yet it felt _sweltering_. "If you're really sick, you need to stay in here and rest, got it?"

A hand at his head, strictly professional as Maxwell squinted open his eyes only the faintest bit, enough to side eye the other man as he sat next to him. He couldn't do anything but lay here for the moment, listen as Wilson mumbled incoherently to himself as he checked his temperature, and then suddenly his hand went down Maxwell's neck, palm curling to press to his pulse. 

"It feels like a fever, you're running hotter than usual." A few shuddering breaths, roughing the sudden heat wave that spread underneath his skin as Wilson sat there and hovered, before Maxwell untangled a shaky hand from the bedding and brushed away that invading hand, his other going to once again try to get him sat up, that roiling weakness sloshing along inside him even as he strictly ignored it-

"Just a side effect," he muttered, more like mumbled as Maxwell ignored the feeling of sweat rising on his brow, the back of his neck, trying to sit himself up, if he just got moving then he'd be fine, "too many clones last night-"

"I know what overuse does to you, Maxwell." Wilsons voice was calm, steady, made him narrow his eyes as he slowly blinked at him, the brightness still all too much, and it finally stilled him when one hand grabbed at his own, tangled bone claws to his gloved fingers and gently, firmly pushed them back, trying to guide him back into laying down. "And just two shadows shouldn't be doing you in this bad. You're sick."

For some reason that statement almost made Maxwell crack a grin, shivering at the cold rush of nerves down his back, spreading across his skin in goosebumps and major discomfort, boiling the insides of his gut and twisting and turning with a dizzy, tipping feeling.

It turned out to not be much of just a feeling, when Wilsons hand was at his shoulder and holding him up from sliding down to the side, and Maxwell's eyes fluttered open as he realized he had closed them, too much blinding light that brought sharp pain every time he tried to squint through it, and this time Wilson wasn't met with much resistance when he guided Maxwell into finally laying and staying down.

"Just lay down, alright? Rest a bit, and I'll take care of your chores for today."

He didn't have much to say to this, mostly due to the sudden dizzy spiral that was occupying his mind, light headed even when not moving at all, and faintly Maxwell recognized that hand against his head again, holding firm and still as he breathed in and out with more ragged strain than usual.

The emptiness that filled in when that hand suddenly pulled away had his flagging energy shooting up, and his grip felt weak and everything was either too hot or too cold but Maxwell held onto that wrist, voice harsh and thin in his burning throat as he tried to ignore the steady drain of his own strength, the even steadier tug of exhaustion that had plagued him all night and was only now finally settling in place.

"Higgsbury, wait-"

"I'll be back in a bit to check up on you, okay? Try to sleep until then, and hopefully this doesn't mess with you for too long." Wilson's voice wandered as he spoke, easily brushing off Maxwells weak grip, and he flinched back when the flash of light from outside pierced through his eyelids, blinding and painful and _too much-_

By the time he removed his own hand from his face, hot and shivering again, jaw grit tight, he was alone once more in the tent. 

It wasn't any relief, especially since he hadn't slept a wink all last night, staring up at the tent ceiling and trying to ignore the fuzzy, itching pull in the back of his throat, the fact that everything felt more sore and bruised than it should have, hound attacks as small in size as it had been shouldn't have incapacitated him as badly as he felt, and yet-

Maxwell never got sick, not anymore. This wasn't _normal._

***

"Mister Maxwell, are you alright?"

Second time he's been asked that this morning, Maxwell thought, eyes shut tight and teeth grit hard enough to make his jaw ache, his hands atop the chest lid and trying to not look as if his balance had all but left him into just weakly swaying back and forth.

"Just, just fine kid." His voice was thinner than he'd like, and Maxwell bowed his head as he whistled in a breath, the back of his throat raw and ragged from the intake of chill air, and swallowing was getting more painful now than it had been, the feeling of something spreading its sickly little roots about his throat and trachea, made every breath a bit more achy than it should be, but he's gotten himself out here just fine so-

"Last night was a bit...a bit much."

"Ohh." Webber churred at his side in thought, all those limbs waving through the air and their unblinking multitude of eyes, and he squinted his own eyes open in time to see them scratch at the bandaging wrapped about their arm, the rugged protrusion of cracked chitin from crushing hound jaws. He hadn't been the only one to have a hard time. "The doggies were real mean, weren't they? They got us good…"

Maxwell nodded when the spider child raised their injured arm, as if to show it off to him, and even though he was taking in steadier breathes of air, the hot flash replaced so suddenly by a freezing deep in his core, it didn't escape their notice that he still hadn't let go of the chest, was still leaning against it heavily.

"Miss Wickerbottom says that if we don't feel good we should rest in our tent." Their piercing voice, usually nothing much to the former Nightmare King, was hard to not flinch from, ringing in his ears and blown wide that sensitive pain that the very light was giving him, and he didn't see whether or not Webber noticed but their shrill chatter did seem to lower a bit into a harsh chittering whisper. "If you don't feel good, Mister Maxwell, maybe you should go lay down some more?"

"I, I said I was fine, Webber." He heard the short clicking from the deep of their throat as his voice turned hard and short, but Maxwell didn't have the strength to conduct himself any softer right now. He wobbled as he raised one hand, pressed against his eyes and hissed in and out a strained breath, fighting off the lapping waves of weakness, the shivering and goosebumps and the fact that he felt so _godawful_ in every sore, aching way, the sweat not helping as he suffered through another skin deep heat flash. If he wasn't careful, didn't pay attention even as his focus got fogged up, everything got strained and hard to notice, he may just slide down to his knees and not be able to get back up again any time soon.

"...Mister Maxwell?"

Webbers voice was small, muffled in his ears as Maxwell finally pulled enough strength in him to open his eyes and glance down at them, but all their eyes conveyed was thickening worry. 

He didn't quite understand why they'd feel that way. He said he was fine, and he wasn't, wasn't _really_ lying! If he was fine enough to pull himself out of the tent and get himself over here to the chests, where he knew the previous night's hound teeth were, where he knew the silk was kept and where the sewing needles were, if he was feeling that bad then he could at the very least do something worth it with his time! 

Wilson was apparently doing his chores for him anyhow! There was no reason for him to waste the damn day sleeping!

He made to tell Webber, assure them once again that he was fine, he'd get the sewing done today, they could go play, don't worry about him _he was fine_ , but in that instant someone else's voice rang out through the morning chilly air.

"What are you doing up?!"

It was also at that moment that his knees, aching and pulsing with pains that he was so strictly ignoring, suddenly were swept up in a bout of weakness and gave out on him, dropping Maxwell against the chest and making Webber squeak a sharp spidery cry in alarm.

His luck, Maxwell figured, trying to catch his breath and clinging to the chest as he listened to the approaching footsteps, quick and fast and the ensuing voice that hurriedly calmed the spider child down. When dull clawed hands yanked him back upright his vision went smeared, the light headedness back tenfold and sending him into a shivering collapse back into those arms, which kept him up as Maxwell shut his eyes, jaw grit and whistling for breath as his heart hammered in his chest, as the weakness pumped through his veins and gnawed straight into his limbs. 

It must be such a sight, a more lucid, tucked away part of him thought, to see Wilson struggling to hold him and all his light, spindly weight up in one coherent position, but his head was ringing and there was an odd echo of empty noise between his ears, a dark static that fizzled up and overtook every last bit of his extra strength, and it took a long, long few moments for Maxwell to realize he was on the verge of passing out.

The world bled back in around the time Wilson had gotten back to the tent, dragging him mostly as Webber trilled and chittered up a storm, and his hearing came back around next, hanging limp in the other man's arms as Wilson fought with the tent door.

"-are you sure Mister Wilson-"

"Yes I'm sure, Webber! I can take care of this, and I'll inform the others about it later, okay?" There was a pause, as Maxwell finally started getting more feeling into his limbs, his strained breaths easing up a bit now, as if what had just happened was more of a brief rest than a sudden uncomfortable embarrassment, and faintly he heard Webber chitter low, clicking anxiously in answer. "...Don't worry, Webber, he'll be alright. I'll take care of him."

 _Poor kid_ , the vague thought graced Maxwells mind; they didn't deserve to get caught up in this when they were still healing from their injury. Hounds bit deep, and while children healed fast it still hurt like hell.

Maybe he should have avoided the chests, went in a different direction. The drying racks needed a bit of repairing from being knocked over last night, right?

The tent was stuffy now, as Maxwell let himself be dragged inside. He was in full control now, even as another heat wave settled in and his stomach twisted knots of varying crooked degrees inside himself, made the dizzy fog even worse, clouded up and hard to think through when Wilson finally released him in a short fall into the blankets.

The sun was at a different angle now, the blinding pain easing enough for him to squint his eyes open and keep them open this time, and the first thing he saw was Wilson scowling down at him.

Ah, a familiar sight finally.

"What were you _thinking?_ " There was anger in there now, thick with exasperation, and the man looked winded, tense and glaring as he crouched down by Maxwell, again his hand flitting about before pressing firm to his forehead. "I told you to take a rest, and instead you go out the tent and bother Webber?"

"Wasn't bothering 'em." Maxwells eyes closed again, done now with seeing that frustration, and he shivered a more full bodied shiver, spine going cold and twitching his arms to curl about his chest. A part of him wanted to curl up, duck away into the blankets, but Wilson was still here, still needling him, still fussing and spouting words the entire time. The worry was so thick in the air it was making his gut twist and turn and almost feel even _sicker._

"Sure, Max, sure. That doesn't explain why you completely ignored what I told you to do, and you really pushed yourself this time!" Wilsons voice was sharp, sharp and painful and piercing in his ears, and for a moment Maxwell actually had the strength and foggy coordination as to push himself to the side, back facing the other man, and it made his insides wither and that cold to curdle twofold to his bones, shuddering out a stuttered breath as the lack of energy tugged in his chest.

His pained efforts did nothing since a moment later Wilson was pulling him into laying on his back once more, palm against his pulse point, other hand pressed to his chest, waiting for his next unsteady breath. 

It was silent for a few minutes, as Wilson went about checking him over, as Maxwell blatantly ignored him at every brief touch and turn, until the other man finally heaved a sigh, clawed hands going to his lap and leaving Maxwell alone.

"...You could have hurt yourself, you stubborn git."

Maxwell slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the discomfort of the faint brightness, the discomfort of swallowing against the rough drag and pain in his throat, the strain of his every breath and the steady shivering from the cold washing through his bones in waves, and when he glanced up to the other man Wilson had his eyes closed, hand pressed to his brow, that scowl still there yet looking remarkably frustrated. 

The feeling in his own limbs was still awash with that horrid weakness, that drain that was eating away at whatever strips of strength he still had leftover, but Maxwell heaved a silent sigh, nagging thoughts and nagging feelings floundering in his chest, and he carefully, slowly pushed himself into sitting up. 

This time Wilson didn't try to push him back, try to force him to do anything, given up finally, and while his arms shook and his legs felt like lead and that cold flash had turned over into burning, searing feverish heat, Maxwell shut his eyes, sucked in a steadying, shivery breath, and forced himself to scoot closer to the other man.

He hadn't exactly intended to fall against him, but the lack of coordinating from his foggy mind had him suddenly slump against Wilson, who sat still and was thankfully patient enough, even now, to wait for Maxwell to figure out where to put his shaking, unwieldy limbs and where to grab and drag his sickly self half into the other mans lap. Leaning against a stocky shoulder, heaving for breath and cursing the ragged raw pains of his throat, when he pressed his forehead to that space between shoulder and neck Wilson didn't shy away from the fever heat and sickly sweat that was coating his skin.

For another few moments he was quiet, Wilson was quiet, and organizing his thoughts, as dizzy and spiralled out of ill understanding as they were, took a good minute.

It, it _was_ just the shadows, of course, wasn't it? Overuse got him bad, especially when he's summoned more than three in too quick a time, but Wilson was right about last night; only two doppelgangers had been needed to take out the dogs. And he hasn't summoned in awhile, a half hearted effort to separate himself from the old tome as more time passed by with him in camp.

Usually he just needed to get moving to ease the bruising pains away. Erase the severed contact between a shadow spun line of himself, get the feel of his own body under his control and remembrance, force back the shadow influence via willpower or heated warm denial, and then he was fine again. It never took Maxwell long in getting himself righted after using too many shadows, using Their help a little too much.

And sometimes it was bad, sometimes he'd get feverish or achy, more than usual, sometimes it did a number to his mental prowess and he needed more than himself, a bit of outside help to anchor him back into reality, but even then it never took all too long.

 _Maxwell did not get sick, ever._ The use of nightmare fuel, the Thrones sticky influence, it all compounded enough to keep him out of that disease ridden discomfort that the other survivors were far more prone to.

In fact, he was usually the one tending to the others, with as ill of an attitude he usually had when doing so. He _never_ got sick!

And yet, after a few moments, Wilson's arms rose and wrapped about him, dull clawed hands firm and helping keep him up and not slide back down with his flagging strength, and Maxwell huffed a sigh, bordering something else as his breath shivered and he fought the shaking in his limbs, the soreness that was enfolded about his very bones and left him feeling even worse than numb.

It's been so long that he's forgotten what being sick was like.

His voice was thin, throat swollen and ragged raw now with pain every time he swallowed, irritated by how much he's forced himself to talk, how much energy he forced himself to use when he didn't even have it in reserve, but it was becoming fairly clear now that whatever he himself had thought this was had been very, very wrong.

And Wilson's worry was still thick in the air, tied fast to that frustration, and with this horrid dizzy brain fog layering down and making his thoughts go in the wrong directions Maxwell still had the words in him.

"...I'm sorry."

***

Bed rest was not a good waste of Maxwell's time.

But, at this point, the only coherency he could glean from that thought was that he felt _terrible_ in the tent and he didn't want to be in here any longer. The aches in his limbs were encompassing, worse than the ones he'd get during the spring, when rainfall stayed for days at a time and his very existence was an aching sore that could hardly be dealt with any longer, but this?

The pain was worse, in feverish waves that had him shivering and fighting the urge to shove off the bedding, blistering heat in the core of himself and yet right under his skin right before switching sides and going ice cold, making him curl up, shudder from the sudden change and try to not let it affect him more than it already was. 

Not to mention his throat, rubbed raw and as if blistering, every swallow had him fight the urge to cough, scraping away in the back of his mouth and swelling up in heated, barely there pain, even worse there discomfort that he could _feel_ , and all he could do was hold his hand to his throat and hope that it would give him some peace besides for the dry hacking coughs that ripped out of him if he wasn't paying attention to his every breath.

And that was all made even harder by the cotton in his ears, the foggy thread of spiraling cobwebbed thought patterns his mind kept twisting on, all condensed into a focus on the pain, the ever encompassing, ever unmoving sore aching _pain_ -

"...Maxwell, you up?"

The sound of the tent door opening up had been muted by the pulsing waves of discomfort, curled up and breathing heavy from the strain, but when Maxwell squinted open his eyes, blinked slowly about the tent, it was just Wilson again.

The other man carefully crouched down near him, holding something, multiple somethings? The fading morning light, now into evening, had all but eased away the too bright rays, only the brief blinding flicker of firelight out in the middle of camp, enough so that his sensitive eyes didn't suddenly water up and pierce with unwanted blindness. 

Maxwell stayed where he was, curled up tightly under too many blankets and feeling hot and sweaty and in more discomfort and pain than his foggy brain wanted to deal with right now, and then Wilson reached out a hand, a light touch landing on his shoulder.

"Do you think you're up for some food?"

Not even a second later and the very thought twisted and squeezed Maxwell's gut, a flare up of sudden deep nausea and dizziness that had him close his eyes and bury his face against the too hot blankets again. His answering grumble of sound, barely a word, barely a growl even, had Wilson's sigh become acutely audible, that hand squeezing his shoulder with what was probably supposed to be comfort but came out like more claustrophobic feverish heats.

"You'll need to eat something to get better, Max."

It took effort, effort he shouldn't be using, but Maxwell shakily, sluggishly rolled himself to face away, not willing to even catch a hint of whatever horrid concoction the other man threw together to "help" with being sickly. The thick blankets cocooned around him even more so, almost suffocating, but he'd take this over trying to swallow something down his rasping throat and swollen sinuses.

His feverish clouded thoughts roiled at the thought, of holding food in his hollow empty gut for longer than the need to expel it, and yet even in his haze Maxwell had the sudden glimmering sharp craving for the nightmare fuel.

"It's mandrake soup, if that'll make you feel any better."

It did not.

"Wes made it. Told me to tell you that he hopes you feel better soon."

Maxwell snarled silently at that, teeth bared against the heated blankets, and his fuzzy mind was even worse off than it was this morning, reeling with heavy discomfort and pain and too hot and too cold and _fucking Wes, of course the mime would tell him that-_

"Alright, enough of the sulking." A hand was on his shoulder again, this time firm and solid as Maxwell was rolled back around; there was little energy left in him to fight back, not enough care in his addled mind, and it was only enough to keep his eyes closed, curled up among these horrid blankets and trying to ignore everything that was happening to and around him.

It didn't last, not with that hand peeling away the blankets, goading him up, and Maxwell heaved a weary, shuddering sigh as his limbs sluggishly pushed himself up, bones creaking and aching against each other, not enough in him to struggle in spiteful misguided thoughts, which seemed to crumble and fade up even as he tried to organize his very own mind, tried to figure it all out even as he was moved and poked and guided into half sitting up. His arms ached from holding his weight as he swayed, head hung low and that discomfort, that fever burn under his skin wrecking havoc in his every wheezing breath, but eventually Wilson got him to sit upwards a bit better, to the point where he wasn't going to just collapse down in one direction or another.

This was more or less accomplished by having Maxwell lean heavy against the other man, shoulder to shoulder and making his hot skin _crawl_ with the pain discomfort of contact now, something new and pulsingly intrusive, but Wilson didn't seem to notice it.

Instead he adjusted the things in his lap, and now that Maxwell dully opened his eyes to a dizzy look he could see that it was indeed a bowl of liquids-

And one of the clay spoons the other members of the camp had attempted in making last summer. Vaguely he remembered that he hadn't been included; suggesting thulcite utensils seemed like a good idea at the time, but when asked how to shape and mold the material into a fork or spoon his lack of answer had discredited him significantly.

Enough so that no one had informed him that the clay project had been underway until Webber had come running over to show off their lumpy creations. He had supposed, at the time, that it was better that way; would have been a waste of his precious time anyhow.

Now, however, under the foggy trainwreck of thoughts still spiraling and burning up in his head, Maxwell found himself glaring at the spoon when Wilson offered it to him.

Of course he hadn't been _invited_ with helping create something essential and important to the camp, which is where he lived out his horrid days of life in. _He_ didn't have anything good enough to offer up then, did he?

"...Did the spoon offend you or something?" Wilsons question was in jest, an attempt at humor maybe, but Maxwell shut his eyes and turned his head, pressed his face to the other mans shoulder and hid away from the heat wave shivers and discomforts for a moment.

It took a few more minutes of coaxing from Wilson to get his wits back about him, confused and a bit lost now that he's forgotten his train of thought again, but the general idea was there when the clay spoon was gently urged into his hands and the bowl, balanced on Wilson's knee, was offered up to him.

It took even longer for his hands to stop shaking, a tremble in them that wasn't caused by the vicious heat and cold waves that kept trading places and made him alternate from wanting to cuddle close or pull completely away from the other man, until by the fifth time he fumbled the spoon bone claws enclosed over his own, warm firm contact pressed to his knuckles and actually keeping stern and steady this time as Wilson started to slowly, softly talk, _ramble_ , about his day.

The words slid through his mind without much meaning, focus flitting back and forth from spooling thick pain and the more intense focus of swallowing the liquids with each mouthful, and for a few minutes Maxwell was lulled away from the spiral of his own fog ushering thoughts.

He couldn't even say the soup was as bitter as he remembered it to be; his tongue gave him no signals besides lukewarm heat and a somewhat slimy, greasy broth, and even the usual smell was absent, leaving Maxwell to only the controlled movements helping him eat and the sturdy shoulder keeping him upright in the whole affair.

He wasn't even halfway done when his gut curled in on himself, interrupting Wilson from prattling on again about something or other that he couldn't seem to fully understand in the mind fog of sickness, but his throat seemed eased now, slicker as he swallowed, expecting the pain and meeting nothing but vague discomfort, and his voice wasn't as whispered rough as he spoke, carefully pushing away the offered spoon with the short, harsh gargle of clearing his throat.

"That's...enough." Even with the soothing effect it hurt to speak, hurt to drag the air from his lungs and expel it in noise that wasn't just a huff or half hearted growl, hiss, a whisper that wasn't rasping any longer but still seemed to threaten the pain, and Maxwell heaved a weathered sigh when his hand was let go of, the horrid excuse of a lumpy clay spoon taken from his grip, the bowl shifted and placed elsewhere. A part of him, lucid enough, could already feel the other man taking a breath, voice exasperated, so it was another work of effort to force the last word from his own lips, coughed and gurgled before his throat let him spit it out fully. "...Please."

It was enough, just enough for Wilson to pause, as if to reconsider, but Maxwell was already focused on the nauseating feeling of his stomach having something inside it, watery and not solid but still sloshing enough, half way filling enough, and the next heat wave came up with a cramp and a dizzy spinning to his head that made Maxwell crumble against the other man, shaking hands taking a weak grasp to his clothes as best as he could get.

Wilson let him, even shifted a bit, and dull claws briefly ran through his hair before landing to his shoulder and guiding him down, finally letting Maxwell slump down into laying his head in his partners lap, and it was still shaking pains and aches and consuming discomforts-

-but his shuddering sigh was heaved, heavy and pulling loose that strain, and even though his gut clenched and twisted and rolled in exchange his throat was softened, not as draggingly painful as before. 

The blankets were still heavy on him, dragging on his back, and even curled close to another the heat wave didn't shrink back, his sweating and shivers didn't recede, but Wilson ran his claws over his sensitive scalp and Maxwell breathed slow, great heaved breathes that discharged strain and stress with each inhale, each exhale. 

He did not like being sick, not at all.

"You feel any better now?"

A genuine question, but Maxwell hunched his shoulders, curled tighter and had his hands cling to his partners trouser leg, a low sound that he'd not admit to be a whimper escaping him as he answered back in a slow, painfully sluggish way-

"Nnnooooo…"

A sharp, light sound, as Wilson snorted, but his claws kept combing over Maxwells head, kept anchoring his fledging thoughts that kept trying to edge, drop down the pit of his sickness into mild delusion, and Maxwell kept his grip tight, squeezing when the wave of discomfort got too much and he had to hold on tighter, trying, forcing himself to only focus, only let his thoughts drift about the breathing warm presence holding him right at this moment and nothing less.

If he just kept his head above the waterline, even dipping and sinking for a few horrid seconds each breath, then he should get through this faster.

That's how sickness worked, right?

He didn't know how long he dozed, half slumbering as that rhythmic slow, soft touch of claws to his head kept up the pattern, kept his clouded mind on the down low and everything else only lapsing waves of discomfort, faint nagging pains eased under the waters of the exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. Those were harsh, a rough fatigue that felt more as if attempting to _force_ him unconscious then let him lay idle until sleep, but Wilson kept brushing his hands through his thinning hair, as if not minding the sweat that collected over his skin, not minding the shivers and shudders and the fact that Maxwell was clinging so harshly to him. 

The exhaustion crept in like waves, oils over water and not quite mixing with the bone deep sickly fatigue, but the anchor stayed and the other man stayed, the aches and pains in fluctuating rolls of shivering heats and blistering colds, it all _stayed_.

And yet, whatever more consciousness thoughts still trying to work through the fever in his head were drifting low and Maxwell's own grip on it, as tight as he had so stubbornly been trying to keep together, loosened up the slightest bit.

Enough to finally fall asleep, at the very least, and vaguely a last little thought flit about as Wilson softly sighed above him, keeping him held together with firm resolve.

_At least he wasn't all alone._

**Author's Note:**

> ...I was sick for a good few weeks, and it was not a nice experience.


End file.
